


rain down on me

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Series 1 AU, dark!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Aren’t you a fugitive now, d’Artagnan, for a crime you did not commit?"</p>
<p>He laughs against the curve of her jaw. "Who says I’m not a criminal?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	rain down on me

**Author's Note:**

> Started off as a fill for a Milady/d'Artagnan prompt on a dysfunctional pairing drabble meme on tumblr. Grew into this monster.
> 
> Warnings: SPOILERS for all of series 1. Some non-explicit sex.

_I’ll kill him for you_ , the boy says, one hand gently tracing the scar round her neck. He sounds sincere enough, but she has seen (and killed) so many men like him—quick to reach for the pistol and sword, yet lily-livered when faced with actual mortality. Especially this one: such robust, unprovoked bravado downstairs, but he was pawing at her neck barely an hour afterwards, eager to please like a lost puppy.

Absurdly, she wants to be there when he discovers Mendoza’s corpse the next day, if only to see his face when he sees the bloody knife in his hands.

_I’ll hold you to that_ , she says, tracing a hangman’s noose around his own neck.

To her surprise, she sees him again—later, much later, when she’s about to watch the last vestige of a life she once coveted die a ragged, painful death. He’s there when Athos gets his inexplicable reprieve, and he’s _smiling_ like he’s orchestrated this miracle somehow. Suddenly, he looks up at her; their eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she wrenches herself away from the window and huddles against the wall, her heart beating a sharp tattoo against her throat. Had he known—could he _possibly_ have—

It suddenly occurs to her that this is exactly how he might’ve felt upon discovering Mendoza’s body, and the thought pulls a sharp, near-hysterical laugh from her.

-

Barely three months have passed before she hears that this boy—d’Artagnan, she must remember, _d’Artagnan_ —has been chosen by the Musketeers to infiltrate Vadim’s operation. The Cardinal seems sceptical of the whole plan: _he will be killed before he can so much as get Vadim to confess his name_ , he says. _I must make alternate arrangements_.

_That is precisely what will work in his favour_ , she says. _I set him up for sure death all those days ago, and he ended up saving not only his own life, but that of another. Vadim will underestimate him, just as surely as you and I._

The Cardinal looks at her sharply; in a different time and a different age, she might’ve quailed at the thought of him looking straight through her and into her heart, but she has long since learnt that the truth is the greatest tool of the deceiver. _Such belief you have in this boy_ , he says, raising an eyebrow.

_He is a penniless farmboy who has managed to earn the Inseparables’ trust in less than half the time it took you to figure out that Adele was a traitor_ , she says simply. _Clearly he has some charm._

The Cardinal snorts. _The charm usually inspired by small animals and naked infants, no doubt_. He dismisses her.

What d’Artagnan has by way of charm seems to be at the expense of common sense, as he makes his very conspicuous way to and from the draper’s house the night he breaks out of the Chatelet, utterly oblivious to the man Vadim has tailing him, or the Red Guards, or Milady herself. When this inevitably gets him cornered by Red Guards, she steps in to save him. 

( _save him_. She takes a moment to revel in the conceit. Wonders if this is how Athos feels as a soldier—it’s such a beautiful little lie that she can see it as an addiction, and Athos is nothing if not a ready addict.)

_You_ , he says, as she steps over the nearest corpse. _What are you—_

She steps closer, places her hands on his chest. His arms fall readily at his sides and his whole body relaxes, delightfully pliant. It is at odds with the way he had kissed that draper’s wife, with so much fierceness, so much energy. She trails her lips lightly along his jaw, turning as he turns his face, teasing. _I only have your best interests at heart, d’Artagnan._

_Like framing me for murder the first time we met?_ he asks, a little breathlessly.

_Aren’t you a fugitive now, d’Artagnan, for a crime you did not commit?_

He laughs against the curve of her jaw. _Who says I’m not a criminal?_

She frowns. Before she can say anything more, she hears urgent footsteps, several voices. d’Artagnan turns to look, and before he can turn back, she melts into the shadows.

-

Milady runs into the night, her past burning bright behind her and an endless dark road ahead. She wishes she can stay and watch; wishes to see Athos bleed and burn with his old home, with all of the things that he had forsaken her for and left forever out of her reach. But life rarely indulges such whimsy, and there is so much yet that she must do—

A hand suddenly reaches from the dark and clutches her arm, halting her and swinging her around. _Who goes there?_ growls a man’s voice, and her heart freezes in her chest.

d’Artagnan comes into view, the light from the flames throwing gold in his hair and flickering shadows over his face. _You_ , he says again, _You!_ , and she wonders if that is her name now; it was, after all, the only thing Saracen had bothered to call her for months. _Years_. 

She responds now as she has always responded to it. _Athos is in there_ , she says. _Are you going to save him, or are you going to waste your time manhandling me? Would you rather he burned?_

There’s a terrible moment in which she’s not sure what he’s going to say; his grip tightens until it’s digging bruises into her skin, and then relaxes altogether. _I will find you_ , he says, and it’s less a promise than it is a proclamation of some common, bald truth. _Do not doubt it_.

He runs towards the house screaming Athos’ name. She mounts her horse and whips it into a gallop, and doesn’t look back.

-

Madame Bonacieux is young and pretty, with a sort of wholesome simplicity and a restless spirit made keen by years of an eventless life. Her eyes brighten when Milady mentions d’Artagnan’s name, and Milady is unsurprised.

_Doesn’t he scare you, Constance?_ she asks.

For the first time, Constance’s mask of forced politeness cracks. _I’ve met my fair share of Musketeers_ , she says, rolling her eyes. _His shenanigans don’t scare me any more than the rest of them._

Milady smiles, places a hand gently on Constance’s cheek. _I can see what he sees in you, now_ , she says. _Constance, you should be scared_.

-

_My name isn’t really d’Artagnan_ , he tells her one day, so casually, as if he hasn’t just cornered her on the street in the middle of the night. _It was my mother’s. My father took on my mother’s family name after she died—I never bothered to ask him why. Maybe it was a sentimental gesture, or maybe he had secrets to keep_. He shrugs. _The reason died with him, but the legacy of his decision lives on, and will keep living for generations to come until everybody forgets that there was a reason for it at all. Isn’t that how it usually works?_

Milady grits her teeth. _If you are quite done with your meaningless babble—_

_I believe in a fair system—I know a secret of yours, and now in return, you know one of mine._

He looks smug now, and the self-satisfied expression is so familiar that it is far more comforting than his easy nonchalance. _And what is that secret, pray tell?_

d’Artagnan leans in close, his breath ghosting over the choker around her neck. _Athos wears your locket still, you know_ , he says. _Keeps opening and staring at it when he thinks we aren’t looking, like your memory is a literal weight around his neck_. One hand snakes around her hip, and the other reaches to untie her choker until it flutters to the ground. His lips move in a regular, warm rhythm against her neck, and it is hypnotising. _Both of you wear each other around your necks_ , he says. _Athos’ burden is easily removed, but yours will forever remain around your neck. And that_ , he nibbles at her earlobe, biting until she hisses at the sting, _is an injustice I simply cannot ignore._

She knocks his hands away, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him fiercely.   
-

Two months after she has been sent to infiltrate Comtesse de Larroque’s social circle, she is asked to accompany the Comtesse to Court. The Musketeers are there, of course, by the King’s side—standing proud in their fine leather cloaks and decorated hats. Milady keeps a respectful—and safe—distance.

She is almost surprised to see d’Artagnan standing among them. He is the only soldier not in uniform—a lowly recruit being called upon to guard the King is a great honour indeed, even unprecedented. As she watches him stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Athos, she has to admit that she is both impressed and rather wary: Athos does not love easily, but he is even more sparing with his respect. d’Artagnan has won both with astonishing speed, especially considering that he had arrived in Paris intending to murder Athos.

Seeking revenge, it would seem, rewards only some, while condemning others.

He finds her later as she knew he would: in the palace gardens, this time. He kisses her before she’s spoken a word, pushing her onto a bench. He traces a warm trail down her body with his hands and lips before he’s fumbling at her heavy skirts, lifting them even as he sloppily kisses every inch of her that he can bare: her ankles, her calves, the inside of her thighs—

_Wait_ , she says, almost embarrassingly breathless, _wait! You fight with the Musketeers now. This—this is hardly honourable_.

_If I were ruled by honour, I wouldn’t have abandoned my father’s mission to join the Musketeers_ , he says. She can feel his smile against her skin. _I wouldn’t have met you_.

_And yet you trust my honour to keep your secrets._

He reaches his hand between her legs; she gasps and his next words are almost lost in the pounding of blood in her ears: _you have no honour, and that is why I trust you_.

-

_This is a generous gesture_ , d’Artagnan says, staring at the coins in his hand and the locket hanging off his fingers.

_Everybody deserves a chance at revenge, d’Artagnan_ , she says. _For some of us, it is our only path to redemption._

-

d’Artagnan is bleeding heavily by the time her carriage driver half-drags, half-carries him to her apartments. The physician she’d summoned for is already waiting; he wastes no time in cleaning and treating d’Artagnan’s wound, cleaning and stitching and bandaging. _He is highly fortunate, madame_ , he says. _The musket ball has only grazed his ribs. He will recover quickly._

True to the physician’s word, d’Artagnan is already sitting up the next morning when she enters the room, gingerly easing his arms into his shirt. She silently places the barrel of her pistol against the back of his head. _Do you really think I would fall for such amateur theatrics?_

d’Artagnan goes very, very still. _Athos knows all of my secrets_ , he says. _They have disowned me._

_I have both deceived and survived too many deceptions to not know when I’m being played._

_Athos shot me_ , d’Artagnan says, almost dispassionately. _He will hang this memory around his neck like your locket, and he will draw a perverse sort of comfort from it. But he did leave me to bleed out in the middle of the square, just as surely as he left you to hang from that tree._

She lowers the pistol. _And what are you going to do about it?_

_Kill him_ , he says, and she feels a thrill crackle up her spine. She is almost dizzy with the thought, the absurd simplicity of it, the implications should it come to fruition.

_How?_ she asks.

_Be there in the main marketplace tomorrow morning at ten. You’ll see_. His grin is wolfish, infectious, and she finds herself smiling along with him.

-

Milady would’ve been far less inclined to believe Athos’ confrontation with d’Artagnan had it not been for the genuine anguish in Aramis’ shout when Athos collapses to the ground. Porthos falls to his knees next to him, flinging away something that explodes at her feet and spatters blood everywhere—a pig’s bladder, filled with blood. Aramis gives half-hearted chase to a sprinting d’Artagnan before he joins Porthos; his hands slip on Athos’ mangled chest and come away slick with blood.

_Athos_ , he's saying, _oh god, **Athos**_ —

She’s seen enough. It is with a sort of detachment that she goes back to her apartments; now that Athos is dead, there is a strange purposelessness to life, as though it is only her bone-deep resentment of him that kept her buoyant through all the indignities she’s had to both perpetrate and suffer. However, d’Artagnan’s frenetic panic when she reaches home helps ground her.

_You need to take me to the Cardinal_ , he says. _He is the only one who can protect us now._

_I will_ , she says.

-

Later, much later, Milady is unsurprised when d’Artagnan arrives at their promised point of rendezvous with the other Musketeers in tow. Athos is riding with Aramis, his torso heavily bandaged and his face pale with pain and exertion, but his eyes regard her coolly, with a quiet, unconscious sort of disdain she’d hated even when they were married.

_You have caught me_ , she tells him, _but I wonder if you know that your new recruit is far more dangerous than I could ever hope to be_.

Porthos and Aramis look away; Treville shifts uncomfortably, and Athos’ gaze is unwavering. 

d’Artagnan smiles, sits straighter on his horse. _Everybody deserves a chance at revenge_ , he tells her. His eyes are shining in the midday sun.


End file.
